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The Copper-Clad World - Harl Vincent

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XII

CHAPTER I

Into the Unknown

ADRIFT IN SPACE! BLAINE Carson worked frantically at the controls, his jaw set in grim lines and his eyes narrowed to anxious slits as he peered into the diamond-studded ebon of the heavens. A million miles astern he knew the red disk of the planet Mars was receding rapidly into the blackness. And the RX8 was streaking into the outer void at a terrific pace—out of control.

Something had warned him when they left Earth; the Martian cargo of k-metal was of enormous value and a direct invitation to piracy. Of course there was the attempt at secrecy and the shippers had sent along those guards. His engineer, Tom Farley, was thoroughly reliable, too. But this failure of the control rocket-tubes, missing their destination as a result—there was something queer about it.

What is it, Tom? he asked when the engineer’s round face appeared at the head of the engine room companionway.

Farley dropped his voice and his customary smile was gone. I found the stern rocket-tube ignition jammed so it’s firing continuously, he said; and the others are all dead: won’t fire at all. That’s why she doesn’t swing to the controls?

Can’t you fix it? Lord, man, we’re headed out into the belt of planetoids. We’ll be wrecked.

Nothing I can do, Blaine, without shutting down the atomic engines. Then we’d freeze to death and run out of oxygen. These ships ought to have a spare engine just to take care of the heating and air conditioning. I always said so.

What happened to the ignition system?

Tom Farley looked over his shoulder apprehensively. Dirty work, Blaine, he whispered. I’m sure of it. Tool marks on the breech of the stern tube. And there’s one of those guards I don’t like the looks of.

Nonsense. The k-metal people know their men; they picked these three especially for the job.

Who else could do it? There’s only the five of us on board.

There might be something in what Tommy said, at that. A thing like this couldn’t just happen by itself. And, come to think of it, one of those guards was a queer looking bird: dwarfed and hunch-backed, sort of, and with long dangling arms. It would be better to investigate.

Get ‘em up here, Tommy, Blaine said.

THE RX8 drove on and on through the uncharted wastes outside the orbit of Mars. None of the space ships of the inner planets ever ventured out this far, and Blaine knew there was grave danger of colliding with some of the small bodies with which the zone was infested. If one of those guards was the traitor he was risking his own neck as well as theirs.

Two of them entered the control room with Tom Farley, big, husky fellows of stolid countenance and armed with regulation flame-ray pistols and gas grenades.

In his bunk, Tom replied with a meaning look. He said he’d be up in a few minutes.

The pilot-commander addressed the guards. Fellows, he said, I suppose you know we’re in a serious fix. The ship is out of control and we’ve missed Mars, where your metal was to be delivered. We’re speeding out into the unknown, out past the limits of space-travel toward the orbits of Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus—God knows where. And my engineer thinks that one of your number has tampered with the machinery. Know anything about it? Blaine eyed them keenly.

One of the guards, Mahoney, flushed hotly. No, sir, he snapped. At least Kelly and meself had nothin’ to do with it. But we’ve been suspicionin’ that little Antazzo ever since we came out. It’s a peculiar way he has about him, the divil.

You think he—

AN incisive voice from the doorway way interrupted, Never mind what he thinks, Carson. I’ll do the thinking from now on.

At one man they turned to face the speaker. It was the guard, Antazzo, and he was clothed from neck to ankles in a garment of bright metallic stuff that shimmered with shifting colors like those of a soap bubble. A mask of similar stuff covered his face, and in each hand there was a weapon resembling a ray pistol but of strangely unfamiliar design.

Mahoney shot from the hip and his stabbing ray splashed full on the hunchback’s chest—but harmlessly. That lustrous garment was an insulating armor; the traitorous guard should have been shriveled to a cinder at the contact. Antazzo laughed evilly as his own weapons loosed strange and terrible energies.

Tom Farley ducked, and Blaine watched in horrified amazement as the crackling streamers of blue radiance from the dwarf’s pistols found their marks. Mahoney and Kelly, standing there, bathed for a brief instant in horrid blue fire: tottering, swaying, their mouths opened wide in a last agonized effort, to cry out. Tiny pinpoints of brilliant pyrotechnics flashing and exploding within the columns of blue fire. Then, nothing! Where the two husky guards had stood there was utter emptiness; not even a shred of clothing remained. The air in the control room became heavy and acrid.

Antazzo! White-faced and shaking, Blaine cried out in futile protest, My God, man, what have you done? What does this mean?

And then, in a blaze of rage, he was on his feet. Murder was in his heart as he set himself for a crashing charge that would sweep the beast from his feet. His own flame-pistol was missing; it was a case of killing this monster with his bare hands. Tom was circling, over there, cursing horribly. One of them would get him. Strangely, Antazzo had lowered the muzzles of his pistols.

ATERRIFIC punch, started from the floor, never reached its mark. Blaine saw a tiny puff of pinkish vapor that spurted from the bosom of that metallic garment. He was coughing and gasping; helpless. Muscles refused to do his bidding. With a moan he dropped into the pilot’s seat, knowing that Antazzo’s will compelled him. That gas had hypnotic powers. Mechanically, his fingers strayed to the controls.

And Tom—good old Tommy—he was under the influence of the stuff too, creeping there on hands and knees toward the engine room companionway.

Antazzo was talking. We come now to the matter of instructions, he said. You, Farley, will assist me in restoring the ignition system to normal. You, Carson, will keep to the controls and will lay a course to Jupiter as soon as the control rocket-tubes will respond. Understand?

Tom growled reluctant assent from where he was crawling.

Strange, this hypnotic gas! Blaine’s mind functioned clearly enough, yet he was utterly at the mercy of this madman’s will—a robot of flesh and blood. Jupiter! he exclaimed. Why man, it’s nearly a half billion miles from the sun. Not habitable, either.

Antazzo had removed his mask and now smiled a superior smile. We’ll reach it, he said: the RX8 is very fast. And it’s not the planet itself we’re bound for, but its second satellite. Io, your astronomers call this body, and it’s a world sadly in need of this marvelous k-metal.

But—but—

Enough! The hunchback snarled his rebuke in Blaine’s face and turned to Tom. Come, Farley, he said, as if talking to a child, we must get to work.

IN a daze of conflicting emotions, Blaine turned to gaze through the forward port when the two had left the control room. The RX8 was accelerating rapidly under the steady discharge of gases from the stern rocket-tube and had already reached the speed of one thousand miles a second. If one of those tiny asteroids, even one no larger than a marble, should meet up with them it would crash through the hull plates as if they were paper. His